


Hardly the Fault of Stars

by MajorTrouble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Competence Kink, Competent!Jaskier, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, First Kiss, Hurt Jaskier, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Oral Sex, Running away from your problems, Self Confidence Issues, Soft Eskel (The Witcher), spy!jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28439358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorTrouble/pseuds/MajorTrouble
Summary: “So you’re a spy!”Geralt’s head whips around to gape at Eskel so fast that Jaskier winces. “He’s not a spy.”“Er, yes I am?”“No you’re not.”“Geralt, I think when Dijkstra recruited me and I went to spy school, I became a spy.”Eskel snorts. “No one calls it ‘spy school’. You work for the Redanian Secret Service.”Jaskier nods, smiling softly at Eskel. The other Witcher grins back. Geralt growls, startling them both.“What the fuck, Jaskier? Why would you do that? Do you have no regard for your own safety? Your own self-preservation?”------------Or, After The Mountain, Jaskier makes some decisions in his life that lead to interesting outcomes, including running away and directly back into the one person he never wants to see again.
Relationships: Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 299
Collections: Geraskier Holiday Exchange 2020





	Hardly the Fault of Stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [contemplativepancakes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/contemplativepancakes/gifts).



> Written for the [@geraskierholidayexchange](https://geraskierholidayexchange.tumblr.com/) for [@contemplativepancakes](https://contemplativepancakes.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Happy Holidays! I hope you like this.

So maybe he’d overreacted. 

Maybe.

Possibly.

Probably.

Now he’s stuck inside a wardrobe in the bedroom of some high-ranking official in the Nilfgardian army and he’s having second thoughts about this whole “spy” thing. He’s really good at it - people say a lot of things when they want to impress a lover - but he’s beginning to realize this might cost his life. 

Not that his life had a lot of meaning up till this point. But he quite likes being _actually alive_. 

The shouting has gotten louder, but not closer, so he’s hopeful this might be over soon. The wardrobe is nice, really, and the clothes are obviously very expensive and high quality, but he’s not keen on staying here indefinitely. 

Jaskier takes a slow, deep breath and waits. 

After parting ways with Geralt for the last time - _parting ways, as if it was that simple_ , he barely represses his own snort of disbelief - he’d bartered with the Dwarves for protection on the way back down the mountain. In his mind The Mountain is always capitalized, like it is a lodestone that must be formally named each time he thinks about it. The Dwarves had readily accepted his help in telling the king of their conquest of the dragon, and he’d spent several days extremely drunk and hungover in turns, singing progressively more bawdy versions of songs that didn’t originally have explicit verses associated with them. The king had been pleased with their story: Jaskier had helped more than he’d initially anticipated if he was being honest. Having the backing of the Master Bard made the Dwarves near heroes in the small kingdom’s eyes and so they weren’t cheated out of their reward. 

Another week drinking himself to sleep and finally Jaskier realized that he was lost. His best friend and entire purpose for inspiration had told him to fuck off. For the first time in his life he was without direction. So he went back to what he knew. Back to Oxenfurt. Back to the professorship that was waiting there. And for a while he was, if not happy, at least content. But that lost feeling persisted, as did the helpless hopelessness that had begun to plague him as soon as he’d stepped off The Mountain. 

In trying to banish it from his mind, he’d agreed to go travelling again. This time with a slight difference. Dijkstra recruited him quite easily to the Redanian Secret Service, and he took to the training like a fish to water, surprising both himself and his trainers. Maybe this would give him purpose again. 

He was too famous to be of any use in the usual ways, but a Master Bard with a reputation for promiscuity could get in just about anywhere. And in this case, anywhere was stuffed into the back of a wardrobe whilst the General in charge of the Northern Campaign was being dressed down by the Emperor himself in his own bedchambers. 

Jaskier hears the tell-tale sound of a blade being drawn from a sheath and he tries to breathe quieter. A guttural cry and the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor make his own body seize up so hard he thinks he might shatter into a thousand pieces. This was not going well.

“You can come out, bard,” comes the richly accented voice of Emperor Emhyr and Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut. _Not going well at all._ “Do not worry. I have no intention of harming you.”

Slowly, carefully, Jaskier opens the door to the wardrobe and unfolds himself. His eyes widen as he takes in the scene. The General, still in his silk robe, lays dead at the Emperor’s feet, the carpet beneath his body soaked through with an ever expanding pool of blood. Emhyr himself looks nonplussed to see Jaskier, who is currently dressed in only a pair of hastily donned breeches, scrambling out from behind the curtain of clothes. 

Emhyr sighs as he finishes cleaning his dagger and puts it back in the ornate sheath at his side. He scrutinizes Jaskier for a moment before speaking again. “Master Jaskier. I apologize for the conditions of our meeting, but I take it very personally when one of my trusted Generals seeks to undermine me by giving information to our enemies. You understand this, of course.” 

Jaskier nods dumbly. He needs to leave this place immediately. 

Unfortunately the Emperor has other plans. “You must allow me to compensate you for this slight. Please, dine with me this evening? I am having a small gathering and would greatly appreciate your company.”

Jaskier swallows before forcing his face into a smile. “Of course. I would be honoured to attend you, your Excellency. You will have to excuse my, uh, behaviour here. I am not used to being this close to death.” He hopes this excuse will cover up how badly he can feel himself shaking. If Emhyr finds out who the General had been telling secrets to, he is _fucked_. Or worse: _dead_.

Emhyr raises an eyebrow at him in speculation. “Oh? But did you not travel with a Witcher? Geralt of Rivia? You must have seen much death at his side.” 

For a moment Jaskier’s brain freezes at the mention of Geralt before stuttering back to life. “Not as much as you’d think, your Excellency,” he hedges. “The Witcher - “ even now he cannot make himself say his name “ - never let me accompany him on hunts, only told me of the aftermath.”

The Emperor nods in understanding, much to Jaskier’s immense relief. He ushers the stunned bard out into the hall and the rest of the day turns into a bit of a blur as servants are summoned to escort him to his own chambers and bring in a bath. He briefly considers drowning himself before instead scrubbing every last trace of the dead General from his skin. 

The lost feeling is back. He really needs to get out of here.

When he makes his way down to the private dining hall, he finds he is among the last to arrive. There are several other Generals in attendance, as well as one or two noble ladies, someone he assumes must be a Mage and - because this day couldn’t possibly get any worse - Geralt. The Witcher’s eyes flicker to him briefly before flashing away just as quickly, like he doesn’t want to acknowledge Jaskier is there. 

He’s never felt this alone in a room full of people.

The Emperor enters amidst a flurry of activity as everyone stands in his presence. Jaskier finds his attention taken up by the food in front of him and the lady to his left who engages him in conversation about his songs and poetry, his professorship at Oxenfurt, and why he’s all the way out here, on the border.

Jaskier rallies as best he can, careful to only answer some questions and deflect others. He knows this woman has been placed here specifically to get information from him - it’s an old tactic and he’s almost insulted that Emhyr would think it would work. But that’s just it, isn’t it? Emhyr is testing him. Cold fear crawls up his spine even as he laughs at something the woman says and suddenly Geralt’s looking right at him, confusion and concern evident in his eyes. 

He ignores the Witcher as best he can. This is no time to wallow in self-pity. He needs to leave. 

The end of the meal finally arrives and the Emperor excuses himself as the guests are invited to remain or take advantage of the rest of the house. Jaskier nearly flees the dining hall, after having accidentally-on-purpose upended a glass of wine on his doublet, using the pretense to go back to his rooms to change. Once inside, he shoves everything he can into a small satchel and listens at the door, nearly vibrating with nerves.

As soon as he hears the servants move on back down the stairs, he slips out the door and runs face first into Geralt’s broad chest. 

He absolutely does not squeak. 

“What are you doing here?” he whispers instead, frantically looking up and down the hall to make certain there is no one else about. Geralt frowns at him and shakes his head. 

“There’s no one else up here. What are _you_ doing here?” he counters. 

Jaskier stares into golden eyes for nearly a full minute before scoffing. “I’m a travelling bard! I was in the area!”

“That seems… unlikely.” Geralt narrows his eyes. “Why are you really here?”

If he wasn’t absolutely certain he was about to die, Jaskier wouldn’t have the courage to speak his mind to Geralt. As it is, however, “I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business. As I recall, I’ve done nothing but fuck up your life, causing problems and being a general shit-shoveler. So I don’t believe you have the right to ask me questions at all.”

To his utter surprise, Geralt looks taken aback. And perhaps guilty. That’s a very new look for that ever-stoic face. 

Unfortunately, Jaskier doesn’t have time to dwell on it. He pushes past Geralt, walking briskly down the hall and towards the hidden servant’s stairs he knows are there. Geralt follows him, still seemingly not getting the hint that he needs to go. 

“Jaskier,” he starts before making a pained sound and then grabbing the bard’s wrist to stop him from moving further away. “Jaskier. You’re afraid. Why?”

Instead of wrenching his hand from Geralt’s grip, he considers his next words carefully before answering. “Because Emhyr is going to have me killed before he lets me leave this castle and I need to leave _right now_ if I don’t want that to happen.”

Geralt looks at him appraisingly before nodding. “I’ll meet you at the stables.” And then he turns on his heel and jogs back down the corridor. Jaskier stares after him for a moment before gathering himself and pushing open the servant’s door, hurriedly taking the stairs two at a time and bounding through the doors to the kitchen. None of the cooks look up as he walks past them and out into the night air. They’ve grown used to his comings and goings in the keep over the past two months - entirely aware of his dalliances with the now-deceased General and entirely uncaring. 

Well, the gossip he brought back from Redania as well as the pouches of coins probably helped with that, but who’s to say, really?

There are a few guards posted along the walls, but Jaskier sticks to the shadows and slinks along the edge of the keep until he reaches the stable. There’s no light coming from inside and he darts through the open courtyard before he has the chance to change his mind. Thorn greets him by whuffling against his cheek and then trying to eat his hair as he tacks up the gelding as quickly as he can. Just as he’s leading the horse out of the stable, Geralt appears as if from thin air, a disgruntled-looking Roach trailing behind him. 

The Witcher frowns at him before motioning him to stop, peering out of the stable doors and listening. Jaskier rolls his eyes. There aren’t any guards on this side of the stable, and the break in the wall leading out into the castle’s hunting grounds is rarely used. He’s come this way so many times that it seems almost laughably easy to leave the castle once he’s past the stable. 

Geralt would know this if he had bothered to ask. Jaskier tugs on Thorn’s reins, brushing past both Witcher and horse, ignoring the curt hand gestures and picking his way over the hard-packed dirt to the opening in the stone wall. On the other side, lit unevenly in fading moonlight and hidden by dense shadows, is the short stretch of grassland before the forest begins. 

Jaskier mounts up quickly. He doesn’t look back as he sets his heels to Thorn’s side, urging him onto the deer trail that runs the edge of the grass before disappearing into the woods. He can hear Geralt doing the same behind him, but is too busy watching for roots and brambles that might trip up his horse to pay much attention to the other man. The trail circles the open grassland before cutting across and at this point Jaskier gives Thorn his head, letting the gelding move into a smooth canter, eating up the distance in quick strides before they are plunged into the darkness of the forest. 

Almost immediately he pulls Thorn to a halt and slides from the horse’s back. As he turns to start leading them further into the woods, he’s stopped as Geralt is suddenly crowding into his space, backing him up against Thorn’s side. 

“What the fuck did you think you were doing?” he hisses. The light filtering through the branches overhead flashes against his bared teeth. “There could have been guards waiting on the other side of the wall! We could have been seen!”

Jaskier stares at him for a moment before calmly replying, “Geralt, do you know how many times I have snuck in and out of that castle in the past few weeks? No? That entrance is never guarded. There is always someone in the courtyard on the other side - who I bribe to not see me - and this whole area is part of the castle hunting grounds. The guards at the top of the tower can see everything that moves in that grassland clear as day. Though, they are currently otherwise engaged this evening, otherwise I’d be short a bit more coin.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “All of which you would know if you’d bothered to stop and ask me instead of thinking you knew best.”

For the second time in as many hours, Geralt looks taken aback. He stares back at Jaskier, jaw working like he’s trying to form words before he clenches it closed. Taking a step back, he deflates somewhat before looking away.

“Fine. You’re right. I should have asked. So, what is our next move?”

It’s Jaskier’s turn to look flummoxed. Did Geralt just tell him he was right? _Filing that away for later_ , he thinks. Out loud, he says, “This is where your Witchery senses come in handy. I can’t see well in the dark, so I usually have a hooded lantern or something to get through the woods. That’s not going to work this time. I need you to get us the rest of the way.” 

Geralt considers this before nodding. “Hmmm.” He takes Thorn’s reins and ties them to the front of Roach’s saddle before handing Roach’s reins to Jaskier. “Follow me.” 

Despite himself and the terrifying situation he’s leaving behind, Jaskier grins.

*

The trek through the forest in the quiet hours of the night is uneventful. Jaskier keeps a worried ear out for pursuers, though Geralt assures him no one is following. Eventually, hours later, just as the dawn starts to break, they make their way into a clearing. One that is obviously set up as a campsite. There’s another horse tied on a picket line, dozing contentedly, and a firepit with wood stacked inside of it, ready to light. 

And a man, kneeling on a bedroll, dressed in armour with two swords laid neatly on the ground in front of him. 

At Jaskier’s sharp intake of breath, the man cracks open an eye and grins. The sunlight picks out three deep, jagged scars running down his face, as well as other smaller, silvery ones on his bare forearms. It makes his dark hair shine like a pool of ink. When his eyes flick to Jaskier, the bard can see the tell-tale slit cat eyes of a Witcher. 

“Is this your bard, then?” the other Witcher asks, his deep rough voice tinged with amusement. 

Before Jaskier can even open his mouth, Geralt is frowning, but what he says is, “Yes. Had to make a quick exit from the castle. The Emperor showed up.”

Jaskier blinks in astonishment. Yes? What the fuck does that mean? He shakes his head before slapping on a smile and addressing the new Witcher. “Well, you know who I am, who might you be?”

The man looks blankly over at Geralt. “Are you fucking kidding me? All that time spent going on and on about the hapless bard that followed you around for gods know how many years and you didn’t even _mention_ me?” He sighs. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Disappointed, but not surprised.” He turns back to Jaskier, standing and offering him his hand. “My name is Eskel. Of the Wolf School. Geralt and I practically grew up together.”

Jaskier takes it without hesitation, a tingle going down his spine at the strength evident in those thick fingers. “Thrilled to make your acquaintance. Now, can you tell me why you’re all the way out here and not at the castle?”

Eskel sighs again. “We were hired to take a contract. Well, Geralt was hired, and I was in the area. He couldn’t take on three wyverns by himself, so he contacted me and we worked together. However, when it came time to collect the reward, we agreed that most people get skittish around one Witcher, let alone two, so Geralt went alone.” He looks over at his fellow Witcher, frowning. “You did get the reward. Right?”

Geralt hums, rifling through the bags on Roach’s back before finding a coin purse and tossing it over to Eskel. “More than we agreed to, but that’s because by the time I got back, the General that hired me was dead, and the Emperor had shown up.”

“Uh, yes, about that,” Jaskier starts tentatively. “That may have been my fault.” 

Geralt snorts in disbelief. “How could a dead General possibly be your fault? Emhyr told me he was a traitor, selling secrets to the Redanians.”

“Yes. He was. Not intentionally, though. I kind of, sort of, overheard some things? And then reported them?”

Both Witchers stare at him for a moment before Eskel smiles. Jaskier likes the way the edges of his scar pull on his upper lip. It makes him look like he’s constantly smirking. 

“So you’re a spy!”

Geralt’s head whips around to gape at Eskel so fast that Jaskier winces. “He’s not a spy.”

“Er, yes I am?”

“No you’re not.”

“Geralt, I think when Dijkstra recruited me and I went to spy school, I became a spy.”

Eskel snorts. “No one calls it ‘spy school’. You work for the Redanian Secret Service.”

Jaskier nods, smiling softly at Eskel. The other Witcher grins back. Geralt growls, startling them both. 

“What the fuck, Jaskier? Why would you do that? Do you have no regard for your own safety? Your own self-preservation?”

The bard swallows back the first thing that threatens to spill from his mouth. Namely that if Geralt was so concerned for his safety, he wouldn’t have left him on top of that horrible Mountain. Instead, he smiles sweetly, the one he knows makes Geralt uncomfortable with how false it is. 

“First of all, thank-you for holding me in such high esteem. I appreciate it _so much_. Second of all, what I do with my life is really none of your concern. This is important, and I want to _be_ important. And I’m very good at it!” He can feel the tears that are pushing up behind his eyes, ready to spill down his cheeks at any minute, and firmly tells himself that this man isn’t worth the salt.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I need to get back to my handler so I can be re-assigned.” He unties Thorn from Roach’s saddle and makes to mount up when there’s a hand on his shoulder. He can tell by the broadness of the palm, the strength of the grip, that it’s not Geralt. 

“You’ve just fled from a castle where your informant got executed for spilling state secrets. I think perhaps you should travel with one of us. At least, just until we can get you back to your people,” Eskel says quietly. 

Jaskier hates that he sees the reason in this. He sighs, resigned.

“Fine. But I’d rather it be you. I’m not ready to be alone with dark-and-brooding over there.” 

Eskel blinks. “I thought you two were - “

Jaskier scoffs, cutting him off. “Hardly. Haven’t seen him in at least a year. But I’ll gladly take myself off his hands again!” he finishes cheerfully, stepping out of Eskel’s grip and shoving his foot in the stirrup. “We should be off, wouldn’t want to cause anymore trouble.” He says this last part whilst looking directly at Geralt. 

The Witcher scowls at him, but before he can reply, Jaskier has swung his leg over Thorn’s back and starts leaving the clearing, Eskel scrambling to follow. 

“I don’t know exactly what you did, brother, but you better fucking fix it,” Eskel pauses to say before hurrying after the bard. 

Geralt scowls harder, but goes to mount Roach and follows them out of the clearing.

*

So it is that Jaskier has two escorts, though he only really talks to one of them. It takes a few days to make it to the city where Jaskier’s handler is, and in that time, Jaskier finds himself making a fast friend in the other Witcher. Flirting with Eskel is nothing like flirting with Geralt. For one, the other man actually takes notice. And he flirts back. 

Jaskier knows it’s not going anywhere, but he’s surprised at the dark looks Geralt keeps giving his brother. Every one in awhile, he snaps, growling at them. Jaskier’s not sure what to make of that, either.

Eskel’s also extremely good to talk to, with a wry sense of humour. By the time they’ve reached the city and secured accommodation at the inn for the night, Jaskier has material for half a dozen songs. Including one about a Witcher seduced by a succubus. He thinks that one would be best sung in the brothels and not the taverns. 

By the end of the evening, Jaskier is pleasantly full and warm and just thinking about heading up to his room when the noise level around them suddenly dwindles to nothing. He doesn’t have time to think about that before he’s shoved down in his chair, the broad back of Eskel shielding him from the rest of the tavern. There’s the unmistakable clanking of heavy boots and armour, and tension lays thick in the air. 

“Good evening, fine folk,” a heavily accented voice addresses the room at large. “We are looking for a runaway. A bard.” Jaskier’s breath catches hard in his chest. They are still so close to the border here. So close to the fighting. He’d hoped they’d be safe, but the fact that Nilfgaardian soldiers can just waltz into an establishment and command silence is chilling. 

“There was also a man - a Witcher - who helped him. We will pay well for information on their _safe_ return.”

He feels Eskel shift against him, pulling his hood down further. Geralt had gone to his room earlier, grumbling something about getting an early start. Jaskier is thankfully for his grumpy attitude now. 

Silence greets the soldier’s announcement and all is still, hesitant, for a moment before Jaskier hears the soldiers stomp their way out again. Slowly, conversations begin to start up again, but it isn’t until the noise level returns to normal that Eskel moves away from Jaskier. 

“We have to leave,” he intones. 

Jaskier shakes his head. “They’ll have the whole area under watch. We should finish our ale, go to our rented rooms, and go to bed.” He pauses, sipping his drink and surveying the room. No one seems to be looking their way, but he could be wrong. “Then, when everyone thinks we’re asleep, we’ll climb out the window and run away.”

Eskel quirks an eyebrow at him. “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

“Many times. Just not in these circumstances. Though the results may be much the same: get out before someone tries to kill me.” 

“I see. We need to tell Geralt.” He drains the rest of his ale, setting it carefully back down on the wooden tabletop. “You should go first. Head to his room, and stay there. I have an idea.”

“Is it a good idea?”

Eskel hums, considering. “Probably not.”

The bard rolls his eyes, pushing his half full mug over to the Witcher before standing on seemingly unsteady legs. “Don’t watch me,” he murmurs before staggering slightly and catching himself on the back of a convenient chair. With his nondescript cloak pulled tight around him, Jaskier looks like any other drunkard making his way to the rooms separated from the rest of the establishment by a long hallway. Once out of the direct line of sight of the patrons and barkeep, he hurries down the narrow corridor and raps sharply on Geralt’s door. 

The Witcher opens it a handbreadth, before seeing who it is and backing into the room, allowing Jaskier to slip inside. He notes the pleasantly burning fire in the hearth, the swords and whetstone set carefully on the table, and the window in the far wall. He marches over to it, closing the shutters quickly before turning back to Geralt. 

“Nilfgaard is here,” he says simply. “We need to lay low until the tavern clears out, then sneak out. Chances are they’re going to be watching as patrons leave.”

Geralt nods at him, but says nothing. He sits back down in the chair by the fire, picking up his steel sword and inspecting the blade. They’d not brought much into the room with them, aside from weapons, instead leaving their packs with the tack for the horses in a stable just outside the city gates. Jaskier had paid the stableboy handsomely to keep their things safe, the two glowering Witchers at his sides reinforcing his request. 

Jaskier couldn’t keep still, hands rubbing together, wringing against each other, as he paces back and forth in front of the door. He has to be patient. Has to be quiet, and calm, and collected and these were not things that came easy to him. Plus he is currently trapped in a room with a man who’d barely said more than five sentences to him in as many days. 

“Panicking isn’t going to make it better,” Geralt grumbles. “Sit down and relax.” 

Jaskier gives him a sharp look. “As we’ve established, you don’t get to tell me what to do anymore. Or have you forgotten your demands of me? To be taken off your hands? I assume that includes making decisions on my behalf as well.”

“Jaskier,” he sighs, putting the sword down and finally looking at the ever-moving bard. “I’m sorry for what I said to you. I spoke out of anger and hurt, and you didn’t deserve those words. I was - “ he blows out a breath. “Wrong.”

Despite himself, Jaskier smirks. “Oh dear. Was that physically as well as mentally taxing to say out loud?”

“Jaskier,” exasperated, but fond. 

The bard waves a hand at him. “Yes, all right, I know. It’s not the best apology. But it’ll have to do for now. Until we get out of this mess and back to some form of safety.” He’s moving again, brow now furrowed in thought. “Eskel said he had an idea. I hope it’s one that will get us out of here in one piece.” He stops as Geralt growls again. “Are you concerned that your brother won’t be able to? Do you think he’ll be hurt? Oh gods I hope not. I rather like him. He’s kind and beautiful and - “

“Not interested in you.”

“Well yes, I know that. I’m not an idiot. But it’s nice to have someone to talk to that talks back.” 

“Hmm.”

“Yes, exactly.”

Silence fills the space between them. Jaskier tries not to think about what Eskel might be doing out in the crowded tavern. Geralt continues to sharpen his swords. An eternity goes by before Geralt goes still before quickly sheathing his swords and grabbing his pack of potions. He blows out the candles and banks the fire, dousing as much light in the room as possible. Jaskier goes where he points him, under the edge of the window frame as Geralt carefully pushes back the shutters. 

Finally, Jaskier’s ears can hear what had alerted the Witcher. There’s a bell ringing in the distance, and the flickering of flames reflected in the thick glass of the window panes. He turns to ask Geralt a question, but he’s already shoving the window open, and crawling through. He leans back in and drags Jaskier out after him, landing them both in the dirt, backs pressed against the wood-slat wall of the inn. 

Now that he’s outside, Jaskier can see that there are several buildings engulfed in flames. He thinks they might be barracks, but at this distance, he’s not sure. Geralt grabs his wrist and tugs him to his feet, only releasing him when he’s sure the bard will follow. Quickly, quietly, sticking to the dark shadows, they make their way past the tavern, past the residential buildings, and past the few merchants quarters to the city gate. It’s manned by one guard who doesn’t even look at them as they rush through. 

Geralt picks up the pace, Jaskier panting heavily as he tries to keep up. They’re almost to the stables when he’s struck from behind by a searing pain. An arrow is lodged in the back of his thigh, sending him tumbling to the ground. Another strikes him in the shoulder and he cries out, voice high and panicked. 

He hears Geralt yelling his name. He feels hands grasping at him, lifting him up out of the dirt. His eyes are squeezed shut against the throbbing pain as his leg collapses under him and Geralt curses. There’s a clash of metal on metal and the smell of scorched flesh. 

Jaskier doesn’t know what to do. The pain shifts and moves with him as he tries to get up, tries to do something to get away from it. But it’s too dark to really see what’s happening. Multiple voices are yelling, calling out to each other, but none of them are Geralt and he thinks, perhaps, that that’s not good. Another bolt of pain hits him in the arm and he screams. 

It’s the last thing he remembers for a long time. 

*

The smell of pine pitch and rosemary permeate the air, tickling his senses into wakefulness. Jaskier slowly unsticks his eyes. They seem glued together with sleep and he tries to raise his hand to rub them, but is restrained by something binding it across his chest. He blinks rapidly instead, trying to bring himself into focus. 

He’s on a wide, comfortable bed. The stone walls of a room surround him. A fire blazes merrily in the hearth to his right. When he turns his head, he can see various other pieces of furniture, bookcases, chairs, small tables, placed strategically about the room. It seems homey, lived in. 

He has no idea where he is. 

The door on the far wall opens, revealing the furrowed brow and pinched expression of a much older Witcher. He’s carrying a tray with a jug and bowl on it, and he sets it down on a table by the bed. He smiles as he sees Jaskier staring at him. 

“You’re awake. Good. Resilient for a human, but you’ll still take time to heal. Here: I’ve brought you some water and broth. That should help some.” He speaks in a no-nonsense tone and Jaskier immediately accepts his help sitting up, taking the cup offered with the hand not bound across his chest. 

Once he’s drunk enough to soothe the dryness of his throat, he asks, “I do beg your pardon, as much as I appreciate the hospitality, but might I ask who you are? And where I am?”

The older man quirks an eyebrow at him, refilling his cup. “You’re at Kaer Morhen, lad. I am Vesemir. Surely Geralt has told you of this place?”

Jaskier looks around himself with new eyes. This is the Witcher’s keep? And this man is Geralt’s old weapon’s master? How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was falling into the dirt, pain blinding him to everything else. 

“I see,” he says instead. “An honour to meet you, sir. I hope I’m not imposing too much as a _human_ in your sacred place.”

Vesemir snorts, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I suppose just this once, we’ll make an exception. Especially if it keeps Geralt from moping about for another winter.” Jaskier feels his jaw drop open and Vesemir smiles wider. “Hmm.”

Before Jaskier can ask him to elaborate, Geralt pushes open the door, frowning at the two other men. “What have you been telling him?” he demands of Vesemir, who feigns innocence, handing Geralt the water jug as he moves to leave.

“Nothing incriminating.” He points to the bowl of broth. “Make sure he eats the whole thing. I don’t want my good work undone.” Turning to leave, he closes the heavy door behind him with a resounding _thunk_.

Geralt and Jaskier stare at each other, each unsure what to say. Jaskier looks away first, drinking the rest of the water in his cup before setting it on the table. 

“So, what happened?” he asks softly. “I gather Eskel lit something on fire, and I got hurt, but how did we end up here?” 

Geralt sighs. He goes to sit down on the edge of the bed, setting down the jug and picking up the still-steaming bowl of soup, holding it close to Jaskier so he can pick up the spoon and start eating. “Eskel lit some of the guard houses on fire, but he miscalculated and it spread to the tower and a few of the surrounding buildings. He barely managed to get out before they collapsed. Of course, that meant he was seen, and chased, and then they started firing arrows at us, and you got hit.” He shrugs one shoulder, careful not to move the bowl. “I got you on the back of one of the horses and we fled.”

He pauses, watching Jaskier spoon up the last of the broth. He sets the bowl down on the table before turning slightly to stare into the fire. Jaskier takes the opportunity to look at him, seeing the lines of tension pulling at his shoulders, and sighs. 

“And how did we get here?” he prompts.

“Eskel knows a mage. We got out of the city and he managed to bribe her into helping you and then portalling us here.” He hangs his head, looking down at the hands clasped in his lap. He’s fidgeting, pulling at the edges of his tunic and Jaskier doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so on edge before.

“There’s something else bothering you.”

Geralt closes his eyes, stilling his hands. “Yes.”

“What?”

“You can’t - you nearly died. And for what? Your handler was the one that tipped off the Nilfgaardians that you were there. Information for information, he said. Like you were just something useless to be thrown away.” 

Jaskier’s eyes are wide and his heart beats faster at this bit of information. It had never occurred to him that he might be so compromised that Dijkstra would want to get rid of him. He shivers. 

He’d definitely overreacted. Maybe he should have gone home, instead. _Oh that would have been grand. Hello mother! Fancy putting up with your wayward son for a few years whilst he pines over a broken heart? Yes, again._

He’s dragged from his thoughts as Geralt turns to cup his hands around his face, dragging his thumb along his bottom lip. Jaskier can feel the tremors in his limbs, the normally stone-faced Witcher now a complicated mess of emotions spread out before him. 

“I can’t - you can’t - “ 

Jaskier lifts his good hand to Geralt’s face, brushing the loose hair back and touching his cheek. “Can’t I?” he says softly and suddenly he’s being kissed. Warm, soft lips press against his, demandingly. He makes a small sound of surprise before leaning into it, only drawing back when the pain in his back and arm make him hiss in discomfort. 

Geralt lets go of him immediately and he frowns. “No, don’t let go. Don’t ever let go. If you want this, if you want me, you have to mean it.” His voice is level, even, but there’s an edge to it, balanced between hope and sorrow, that he doesn’t mean to be there but that Geralt hears anyway. He’s nodding at Jaskier, reaching for him again, smoothing his hands over every bit of bare skin not covered by bandages, and kissing him with an intensity that almost literally takes Jaskier’s breath away. 

Jaskier feels at his mercy, nearly, only able to use one hand to smooth along the planes of his back, tracing over the hard muscles there through the thin tunic. Geralt has no such barriers. Jaskier is, underneath the cover of blankets piled on and around him, bare except for the bandages wrapped around his chest and thigh. He works his way down Jaskier’s throat, leaving bruising kisses, tongue laving at his exposed collarbone, before moving the blankets aside to continue down across the planes of his stomach, taking his time to nip and suck marks along his hip bones. Jaskier watches him through half lidded eyes, threading fingers through the soft white hairs on top of Geralt’s head, letting the strands slip between his fingers like fine silk. He pants, tipping his head back and groaning, trying not to clench his hand as Geralt takes hold of his weeping cock, clever tongue circling the head. 

He kneels down between Jaskier’s slightly spread legs, and the bard gasps as he’s enveloped in wet heat, strong suction making him squeeze his eyes shut to keep from moving his hips. Geralt’s mouth is a blessing: he can feel the other man hollowing his cheeks, dipping deeper with each bob of his head until the head of his cock is hitting the back of his throat. Geralt buries his nose in the curly hairs at the base of Jaskier’s cock as the head pops into his throat and he swallows, the pressure causing Jaskier to cry out, the pleasure washing over him, coming down Geralt’s throat before he has time to warn him. Geralt hums, making Jaskier throw his head back at the overstimulation, nearly cracking it against the headboard before Geralt slowly drags his lips back. 

He releases Jaskier, moving up the bed to carefully rearrange the blankets and furs to cover him. He smiles into Geralt’s mouth, gently kissing him as Jaskier catches his breath.

“Don’t let go,” he whispers. “Please don’t let me go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and comment mean more fics, did you know?? <3 Thank-you for reading!!


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